I'm completely someone.

Interesting post over at Shapely Prose today. That Kate Harding always manages to ring my bell when I least expect it, particularly this quote:

So many of us go through our lives as fat people doing our very best to ignore our bodies entirely, to pretend they’re just not there, because thinking about these shameful vessels we live in is so painful. (Which is one reason why exercise can seem like such a daunting task when you’re new to it. It means actually acknowledging your body and inhabiting it, instead of keeping your mind — the good part of you — comfortably separate from its housing.)



I spent years disconnected from my body. Dialogue from the movie "Impromptu" starring Judy Davis and Hugh Grant summed up my attitude almost perfectly. Hugh Grant plays Chopin, who was reluctant to enter into a love affair with French writer George Sand (Judy Davis) primarily because he was chronically ill: "...my body is such a great disappointment to me, that I've already said goodbye to it, I'm... not really in it any more, I'm just... happier floating about in music. And if I should come back inside this miserable collection of bones, then I am afraid that it would probably collapse altogether." My primary interest was my brain and the development of it. It was my refuge from a world that I didn't feel a part of--to trot out yet ANOTHER quote, this time from the Beach Boys: "I just wasn't made for these times". My twenties were essentially spent writing screenplays and spending as much time inside my head as I possibly could because my head wasn't a disappointment to me. Of course, the kind of world inside my head was as Fantasy of Being Thin as you get. In my head, I was thin (or, at the very least, just merely "chubby", since it seemed like the chubby girls were able to get something of a pass, socially speaking), even though the main characters in my screenplays were always fat girls who managed to get The Guy. But they were never fat like me, they were Showbiz Fat, girls who were maybe, maybe clocking in at a double-digit size. They had "problem areas", but they certainly didn't have problem areas like me with my big belly and my wibwobbly thighs and stretch marks and varicose veins. Think America Ferrera or Kate Winslet or Toni Collette (in "Muriel's Wedding"). It was utterly inconceivable to me that a girl that looked like me could ever, EVER get The Guy, so I certainly wasn't going to write that way. I felt I was doing my part simply making it clear that the lead female wasn't a cookie-cutter starlet.

As I've gotten older and become more invested in fat acceptance and the amount of kick-ass shit my body is capable of, it's now my brain that's developed problem areas. It's almost like my brain's a bit pissed off that I've stopped spending as much time inside of it. So every time I make some sort of a step forward in my own personal affection toward myself, the brain is determined to amp up the voice that tells me how completely stupid I am for thinking I'm worth anything. Basically, my brain is the most poorly-trained yappy dog you can imagine, and no amount of scolding shuts the fucker up. Like I'm wearing a Pomeranian as a hat and I can never take it off. What makes it super-frustrating is that there's a significant portion of my brain that has remained cool and Spock-logical and tells me when the more irrational, Goofy Spock-illogical portion is kicking in to not listen to Goofy Spock because Goofy Spock is just that: goofy. However, when so much shit in the media and entertainment and life in general is parroting exactly what Goofy Spock is hissing, it's nigh impossible to resist sliding back into my old ways and my old hatred. When you put up dating profiles on various sites and don't get a bite...yeah, a little difficult to hitch up oneself by the bootstraps and be all "YAY ME!" Or seeing people that are appalling winding up in happy relationships...not exactly something to inspire one to whip out the pom-poms (not to be confused with the Pomeranian Hat) and jump around screaming "J-A-N-E YOU ARE FAB AND OVER 30!!!!"

(If you're thinking I'm inordinately focused on relationships and love, why, you would be correct. It's a consistent pain point and has been since I figured out that boys didn't actually have cooties. Though they all seem to think I still do.)

But divorcing my body from my brain, despite all the hiccups, doesn't make me whole and it doesn't make me happy. It simply makes me unbalanced. I'm not fully present. I spent so much time not being present in the interest of avoiding being hurt that I managed to miss out on a lot of things, a lot of opportunities. Trying to avoid being hurt didn't stop me from being hurt. I may not have been getting hurt by unrequited love, but I was getting hurt by any number of other things, whether it was failing to make a living by writing or performing or even having the gumption to try; or failing to avoid having to move back home with my parents at 33. My head is still trying to learn that my body isn't simply here to be a hindrance or a hairshirt. It can be a source of strength, strength that my head may not have at any given time. It can be a source of pride. It can be a canvas. It can be any number of things I can imagine--but instead of keeping it inside my head, it needs to stop hiding. I need to stop hiding.

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Girlish notions.

I am changing my name to Satin. Or Cashmere. Or something as sumptuous because right now I'm feeling a powerful love for Velvet D'Amour, whom many of you might recognize from her doing the catwalk in a Jean-Paul Gaultier show not too too terribly long ago. POWERFUL love.

What kind of stunned me was that Jezebel.com, of all places, is running an article about Velvet today and, so far, the comments haven't devolved into a wanky crapfest about the obesity epidemic and how she must be screamingly unhealthy and OMG WTF ZOMG THE CHILDREN!!!!. And dammit, my much younger self wishes she knew how on earth Velvet managed to keep those thigh-highs up because I know I couldn't do it back when I was in my "I must buy enormous amounts of lingerie even though I'm the only one seeing it" period. It wasn't unusual for me to find one or both of my thigh-highs pooled around my ankles if I walked more than 40 feet. I don't remember if I ever wore them with skirts. There was a sad, sad moment in time where jumpsuits (I think they were called jumpsuits) made a semi-comeback in the early 90's, and...yeah, I had two of them. Looking back at pictures of me in them...ohhhhhhhh no. No, no, noooooooooo. Imagine the scene from the end of "Revenge of the Sith" when Vader does the NOOOOOOOOOOOOO and that's me looking back at photos of me on my 21st birthday, having dinner with the family at Rosebud. Hurtful.



But I digress. I run hot and cold with Jezebel. Sometimes, the articles and analysis is spot on, and other times...my teeth are practically worn down to nubs from all the gritting and gnashing I do. I feel like there's a lot of talking out of both sides of the Jezebel mouth on a variety of subjects. Whenever a fat-related article gets posted, Katie bar the door because nine times out of ten, the Internet Scientists come roaring in with their factoids about killer fat and diabetes and the same old song and dance within 10 posts. Some commenters do their best to provide an alternate view, but we all know how well that works out.

And there are other subjects where all I can do is scratch my head and kind of go "huh" because I can't relate to it at all. There are times where I feel downright alien when observing online conversations both in the Fatosphere and other woman-centric places. The Rotund wrote an amazing piece recently talking about a shopping trip she had in Brooklyn with other members of the FA community and while I dug it on the level where I love stories about women bonding hardcore, I was simultaneously kind of "whuh?" because clothes and shopping and that sort of thing hasn't been my bag in years. I can put together an Outfit with a capital O if I have to and every so often, I'll put on the dog, but in general...I will do whatever it takes to avoid it. It's kind of a drag because a part of me feels like I'm missing out in some way or I imagine myself in that situation and think, "oh jeez, I might have been a massive buzzkill because I'm not a shopper and not a dresser-upper anymore". Although, I have an odd knack for helping others put together outfits, so who knows. I flirt with the idea of trying out a life where I get snazzy every day and see what the reaction would be, and then I get very very tired at the thought of putting on make-up and arranging my hair and wearing clothes that I wouldn't be that comfortable in. But then I see pictures of Velvet or other Fatshionistas and think "fwaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrr, they look so foxy"...and something in my head goes *ping* and I feel the itch to go back to the days where I would do it up every day in my own special way. And then I feel tired again and consider laying down for a quick snooze.

Perhaps my primary lack of interest in clothing and whatnot springs from feeling like even if I *did* engage in jazzin' it up, I'd look stupid and *not* cute. I had an odd moment of that a couple of months ago, where I wore a skirt. My main reason for wearing it was that I'd run out of clean clothes on a two-week-long overseas trip, but I do like to bust out a skirt every so often because I enjoy my gams. The person who picked me up at the airport is almost professionally sarcastic, and our relationship is one based on an odd combination of mutual admiration, true affection and a driving need to be almost brutally evil to each other. He smoked on up to me and said, "a SKIRT?!" in a tone that one part of my brain acknowledged was just him being himself and giving me guff*, but then the other part of my brain that we'll call The Paranoid and Insecure Sector completely went :( and immediately instructed the remainder of my brain that I, indeed, looked quite ridiculous in a skirt that dared to hit above the knee (and has adorable little faux mirrors stitched into the hem that I got at Lane Bryant a lifetime ago and I will never give up because I <3 it). Now, keep in mind I willingly wore jumpsuits with massive floral patterns on them for far too long, so clearly I'm not all that worried about what other people think of what I wear or how I look.

But I'm not quite the same person I was when I was trotting about town in floral jumpsuits or a half-shaved head or big-ass snake earrings. Years of the world screeching "NO BAD WRONG" at you will do that to a girl. Now the challenge is trying to reclaim that person. Just...without...the jumpsuits.



*Note: some two months later, my friend told me that I had, indeed, looked good in that skirt. And then when I explained to him how I felt and it was going into my blog for all the Fatosphere to see, he apologized profusely and begged forgiveness and sent me a present. OH WAIT HE HASN'T...YET.
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Hey Subway!

No no, don't eat fresh, Subway. EAT ME. They have a new ad now that's targeting fat panic at men, where if you don't eat Subway Jared-style and dare to have *gasp* a burger and fries, the following is going to happen to you:

*you'll have to wear the dreaded "fat pants"
*you'll need a seatbelt extender
*you'll have to wear bigger clothes
*you'll have to read diet books
*you'll have to get a gym membership
*you'll have to wear more deodorant (because after all, FAT PEOPLE SWEAT MORE--in fact, we sweat so uncontrollably we walk through life looking like Albert Brooks in "Broadcast News" when he gets his shot at the weekend anchor desk and suffers a massive attack of the flop sweats)
*you'll be more paranoid
*you'll need a therapist



Not for nothing, but having a gym membership in and of itself isn't a bad thing. I have a gym membership at a very swank and shiny gym where the emphasis isn't on health but on how to look better naked. Despite the completely fucking ridiculousness of that whole concept, the folks that work there are nice and I've never experienced any static from other gym members about Ole Fattie hopping on the treadmills or whatnot.

I would also venture to say that if you have a burger and fries when the mood strikes you, YOU ARE NOT GOING TO SUDDENLY BALLOON UP 50 POUNDS. Having a piece of cheesecake does not result in an instant weight gain of 10 pounds. Your heart isn't going to stop, your head isn't going to explode.

As for being fat making you paranoid...well, how ridiculous. Certainly, we've all learned that being fat in society is downright beloved. It's not as if there are stories every day about how if you're fat, you're a lazy sack; or fat people being portrayed in movies and TV shows as gluttonous hogs trying to devour the world; or wank-filled brawls in internet communities about the evildoings of fat people. It's not unusual for me to be walking down the street and suddenly, someone stops me to hug me to let me know how much my being fat is embraced and adored.

OH WAIT.

And as we all know, if you're thin, there's absolutely no need for therapy or any sort of psychiatric assistance. Thin people are never depressed. It's true.

Look, Subway, I dialed out on eating your shit when Jared was trotted out, and the more you've gone the way of fat-panicking the nation into buying your decidedly weak-ass subs, the more I'm determined to mock the hell out of you. Seriously. You'll need to buy more deodorant??

Morons.

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I just cut myself on Occam's Razor.

Obesity tied to risk of psychiatric disorders, Reuters is telling me today (via Jezebel, that is). Naturally, since they're scientists (which then triggers a soundbite in my head of Bill Murray in "Ghostbusters": "Back off, man. I'm a scientist"), they're just plain old baffled and their gasts are somewhat flabbered at not being able to "fully investigate" the reasons why us fats seem to come down with depression, anxiety disorders, panic disorders, and phobias.

First of all, in my head I'm thinking, "well...that's a bit of a half-assed study, then, innit, if you couldn't quite 'fully investigate' something?" Kind of like going for a college degree and then deciding you couldn't fully complete all four years of study. You don't wind up with a shiny diploma for thinking "boy, I'd sure like to have a degree in something" and then fucking off to do something else.



And the other thing, the thing that's caused my forehead to become embedded in my IKEA desk...is it any fucking wonder the fat tend to be more depressed, etcetera? Not because of our fat, but...oh, I don't know...the reactions we tend to get from the outside world because of it? I know it's been hard to put a spring in my motherfucking step when I've been called a fat bitch by a car full of teenage boys. It's a bit of a push to turn my frown upside-fucking-down when almost everywhere I go in the media or on the internet I'm being cheerfully informed that I'm a horrible, disgusting, lazy creature responsible for multitudes of ills in the world, from global warming to terrorism. I'm waiting on the edge of my seat for hysterical stories claiming the food shortage and higher price issues the U.S. is currently having is due, somehow, to the Obeeeeesity Epidemic. Why, it's a never-ending festival of laughter and joy being tagged as something less than human and undeserving of respect and love! As Howard Stern once proclaimed, "a waste of a perfectly good vagina".

Undoubtedly, there will be a cavalcade of articles at various "lifestyle" websites holding this study up as more inspiration to continue dieting yourself silly and doing whatever it takes to reach the miraculous state of thinness that is easily achieved if only you'd just fucking TRY HARDER YOU LAZY, LAZY ASS. If you would only stop stuffing your silly fat face with all manner of cookies and donuts and candy bars and Big Macs and WORK HARD TO BE THIN, you could be happy. Shit, it even insinuates in the article that us bummed-out chubs can't help but reach for the pint of Ben and Jerry's when we're sadclowning, so it's just a vicious circle that perhaps, one day, Very Smart Scientists can break. But only after they get large grants from the weight loss and bariatric surgery industry.

Seeing as I am someone who wanted a college diploma but dropped out after three years so therefore, I have a college diploma strictly because I wished it, I'm going to tighten up what theory this study is trying to put forth:

If you're not fat, you won't be sad.

BOOM. PRINT IT. SCIENCE. Hell, it's as much of a viable theory as this one from Ann Elk (Miss). If you're thin, absolutely nothing bad ever happens to you, you're never sad, you're never sick, and you wake up every morning whistling "Zippity Doo Dah". If you're fat, well...I think we all know just what it means.

I know it's not scientifically sexy to Occam's Razor shit like this, because Occaming studies doesn't get you the fat cash from the weight loss industry. But holy crap, how about taking a step back, donning the ole Thinking Cap, and positing that perhaps a sizable chunk of us having issues with depression just might be having those issues because the never-ending story shoved up our generous rectums is that WE SUCK? And the message isn't coming just from the media or whatever--loads of us get it from the people who are supposed to love us unconditionally, like family or friends. Incorporate the bigger picture into your study, Mr and Ms. Wizards. Then maybe I'd be more impressed and I wouldn't have to lord my clearly superior theoretical skills over you. Read more on this article...

It's okay to want more...right?

So I'm kind of half-heartedly wading through the online dating "scene", just kind of scoping out my options. My general attitude about it is probably not the best, in that I irk easily and I have certain things that I just cannot let go of: my preferences when it comes to religion and children...and spelling and grammar.



I thought it would be in my best interest to head to websites that are specifically geared towards teh fats. I dutifully put up my profile and pictures (I think the one where I'm wearing a hat shaped like a shark is bound to attract scads of fellas), and sat back to await the flood of interested parties.

Because of COURSE there would be a flood, people, COME ON. I'm ME.

The flood...well...the flood consisted of some of the most violent spelling errors I've ever witnessed. Now, don't get me wrong--I'm not talking about a transposed letter here and there. We're talking passages of spelling errors. And apparently, my religious beliefs (or lack thereof, I should say) as well as my disinterest in having children...let's just say it didn't stop me being messaged by a gentleman whose entire introductory profile paragraph was about his love for Jesus and how if I didn't love Jesus, we would not be COMPATIABLE(sic). Dude, it says very very blatantly in my profile that I am an atheist. Therefore...I must say one could conclude that I do not love Jesus. He's a nice guy, we just don't have much in common and don't run in the same circles.

Then I had another message from a guy who loves "weman" and wants me to know that "weman were made for us men". Which is...fine...I guess? I mean, rock on with your bad self, if you want to go with that approach. But the most lolleriffic thing for me was that why yes, he was willing to relocate for his perfect lady love. And why wouldn't you be willing to relocate when you live...IN GHANA.

Of course, there's the voice in my head that says I'm being too picky, that I'm being too much of a snob to be so bent and unmoving about the spelling and grammar, that I'm being a pedant. And someone like me (that is, FAAAAAT) shouldn't be so picky. Rather, shouldn't dare to be so picky. After all, who do I think I am? I'm old, I'm plain, I'm certainly no fashion model--who am I to be such a stickler when I should be grateful that any male is paying attention to me?

Thing is, though, no matter how irritated I get with myself and how downright hateful I can be to myself, there's still enough of an ego in me where I know I deserve better. At the very least, I deserve someone who can write a semi-snappy, well-crafted motherfucking dating profile, for Christ's sake. Frankly, I've still enough of my ego preserved from my teenage years where I thought I was the shit where I'm occasionally genuinely baffled as to why I've been rejected by some of the men I've been rejected by. Especially when seeing what kind of women they wind up with. Back in high school, I had myself a little crushola on a guy that was a year younger than me. My kind of guy--kind of shy, fairly geekish, could play the piano like a son of a bitch, and had a very dry, silly wit that made me swoon. He knew that I found him foxy and didn't seem that perturbed by the concept. Little did I know that a girl that I was mentoring somewhat in the high school radio station had her eyes on him, and dammit if she didn't snatch him right out from under me.

When it all went down, I was truly, truly baffled. I barely thought "shit, it's because I'm such a fat fucking cow"--it was more "what the FUCK??? She's--she's--she's EWWW!! And dumb! And not funny! And weird (not in the fun way, either)!!" I was boggled for months. Even looking back now, I'm having a moment of "BWUH???". But that could be the ridiculous amount of snot that is currently coursing out of my nose thanks to a sinus infection breaking up.

I'm sorry, my sinuses derailed my train of thought. All right. Yes. Got it. Bottom line, I know what I want. And what I want is what I want, and can spell "want" correctly. And at the end of the day, I sincerely and wholeheartedly mean it when I say I would rather be alone (despite my whinery) than settle. Because I deserve what I consider the best, and the size of my ass is not going to alter my criteria.

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Talking out both sides of your mouth.

"Removal of Aussie model sparks up skinny debate", Yahoo informed me today, and the gist of it is that a young woman who appeared to have lost weight since moving to Paris to do runway, and she was briefly pulled from the show so that they could ascertain her health status.



A couple things caught my eye and caused me to "Bwuhhhh?" this morning as I sat at my desk. There was the agency spokeswoman stating, ""She is on a positive track now and is going to relax, take time out, not work as hard and have lunches and dinners." The vibe I catch from it is like, "we'd best make sure people know she's not a complete hog and having *gasp* BREAKFAST" combined with that old PR move of showing Hollywood celebrities who have been tagged by the tabloids as "OMG TOO THIN!" eating absolutely everywhere they go so as to prove, somehow, that Hollywood celebrities are just like us.

The other thing that caused my head to tilt like Nipper the RCA dog was this bit:

Spain and Italy have recommended banning catwalk models with a body mass index (BMI) of less than 18.5 -- a measure expressing a ratio of weight to height -- but shows in London, New York and Paris say this index is not an accurate measure of health. Wait wait wait WAIT a second, hold up, hold up, HOLD THE PHONE HERE, COWBOY. Are you telling me...that the BMI...isn't an accurate measure of health? But every frigging time I turn on the T and V or look at the Internets and they talk about the Obeeeeesity Epidemic, the doctor fellas and suchnot are telling me that the BMI *IS SO* an accurate measure of health! Let's take me as an example. According to the Most Blessed And True BMI charts, I have a BMI of 90 bazillion with a side of turkey gravy. (Actually, my BMI is 41.3 - SACRE BLEU I AM MORRRRRRBIDLY OBESICAL!) From a "medical" point of view, my heart should be exploding any...minute...now.

*waits*
*keeps waiting*
*checks watch*
*has a bit of dried pineapple*

So it is quite clear that I'm only moments away from keeling over because the BMI is an accurate, no-bullshit measure of a person's health. Oh, but not if you're a fashion model or otherwise a thin citizen of the world. In order for me to be considered "normal", I should clock in at 125 to 165 pounds. Even when I was food journaling my metaphorical balls off and exercising five days a week and watching every single item that flew into my mouth, the lowest weight I ever achieved in my life (that I can recall) was 225. This is me at 225, when I was 18 years old (I was big into the Cure, so shoosh):



This is me at 280 and 35:



Wow, I can sure tell the difference...can't...you? And I think it's clear that it took all of my effort and energy to kick up that leg in such a saucy fashion. Shortly after this picture was taken, I had to lay down on the walkway for a while. I know the wizard peeking out of that hole up in the Excalibur's thinking "FAT HOG!" But look! I was being "good"! I was drinking a Diet Dr. Pepper, goddammit!

The simple fact of the matter is, no matter what I do (and I have done it over and over and over again, so no need to pass on "helpful tips" on ways that dadgummit, this time around I could finally drop those pesky 120 pounds I've carried since forever), I am NEVER going to see 165 pounds until I've been in the ground for a couple of years. I'd be shocked if I ever saw 225 again, mostly because I suspect I would discover soon after that I had some sort of awful disease that was devouring me from the inside out or that I had an unknown twin residing in me, Rusty Venture-style.

Another thing that caught my eye and irked the snot out of me occurred while I was eating dinner tonight (mmmm, peas)-- that ad for Ensure, which is used in nursing homes to keep old and sickly people from, you know, starving to death because they can't eat for any number of reasons. Now it's being touted as, basically, a meal replacement. There's all sorts of fucked up tied into that sort of shit, but that's not my current bitch. My current bitch is that Ensure should be used by adults who aren't "always eating right", the smarmy voiceover says. So if you're the kind of hateful, un-American asshole who decides you're in the mood for fries versus a small salad, there is all kinds of wrong with you and you had better chug yourself some Ensure immediately in order to undo all the harm you've done to society at large, let alone yourself. That phrase...oh, it sets my spine on fire, "eating right". You should always EAT RIGHT and eat GOOD FOODS and NEVER, NEVER EAT BAD FOODS EVER. It's the Trifecta of Rage for me, in fact, when the "good" food vs. "bad" food bullshit crops up alongside "eating right". And that insidious push in the world that you can simply never, ever have ice cream/brownies/cookies/fries/burgers/pizza or else you're going to spontaneously combust and take out a litter of adorable kittens while you're at it. You don't want to kill kittens, do you? Then you had damn well better put down that cookie right now and hop on the treadmill. HOP ON IT. No, literally hop on it, because it'd be funny. And it's probably make exercise way more fun for you. I bet if you made it fun instead of a horrific drudgery and punishment for being "bad", you'd find it was a lot easier to do it and enjoy it.

Look, all I'm saying is that there are many truths in this world, and here are some of them:

Thin does not equal healthy
Fat does not equal unhealthy
You cannot look at ANYONE, be they built like me or built like a fashion model, and determine what their health status is, so STOP FUCKING DOING IT
"Naturally fat" is not bullshit and neither is "naturally thin"
There are no "good" foods and no "bad" foods
Weight Watchers -- yeah, IT IS A FUCKING DIET

The BMI being an accurate indicator of anyone's health status has never been and never will be anywhere near truth. The fashionistas in New York, Paris, and London have at least got that one right on the nosey.

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Non-Entity.

I'm having a Barbra Streisand moment, I reckon. The joke always has been that in Barbra’s movies (that she’s directed, that is), there’s always a moment that can be pointed at as her proclaiming “MY MOTHER NEVER TOLD ME I WAS PRETTY!” Think back to “Prince of Tides” and all the lingering shots of Barbra’s immaculate manicure, Donna Karan clothes, perfect make-up, elegantly coiffed ‘do. Almost every shot containing Barbra screams “FUCK YOU MOM I AM MAKING OUT WITH NICK NOLTE FTW” Shit, if I had more money than God and was making a movie, it’d probably be one long paean about how no one ever has told me I’m pretty or beautiful.



What’s so irksome is that it bothers me. It bothers me a lot. It’s not supposed to, if I’m going by the Official Handbook* you’re given when you’re hopped up on feminism, HAES and fat acceptance. I should be completely inured to anyone’s opinion on the superficial. I shouldn’t be craving such trivial things. I think, “well, you’re always on the defensive waiting for someone to take a shot at you because you’re fat, so maybe you’re so defensive that you’re not HEARING the compliments”. Well, no. That would be inaccurate. I’ve never been a major make-up wearing, clothes-horsing, shoe-loving kind of woman. I don’t like the way I look in make-up, I generally dress like a 14-year-old fat teenage boy, and my size 10 boats never were and never will be at home in anything but thick-soled Doc Martens, Vans, or Chuck Taylors. As I do tend to dress in a more masculine fashion and my body shape is not hourglass, I’m often mistaken for a man. Couple that with an inability to behave in a more stereotypically feminine fashion, and I’m an It. I’m not a man, not yet a woman (oh, Britney, thank you for that song and my insane need to use variations on it 24/7). And as a result, “pretty” is not a descriptor used by anyone in relation to me, ever. Certainly my parents must have said it at some point, right? Well...not really, exactly. Not too long ago, my father was talking about how Dawn French would be pretty if she lost weight. Seeing as I’m kind of built like Dawn French (just sans the tits), I think it’s fair to infer that I, too, would be pretty if I just lost the weight. I look “nice”. That’s the phrase that has always paid, that I look “nice”. (I’d like to add that to the clichés and platitudes I never motherfucking want to hear ever again, “oh don’t you look...nice”.)

What winds up happening in my messy brain is that I take the most innocuous things personally. When I witness or read compliments on the aesthetic aspects of those around me, I’m immediately spiraled into a “fuck, I’m ugly, fuck, I’m worthless, fuck, I’m nothing” dance routine (jazz hands are involved) that only gets more spiral-y as I then berate myself for giving a shit in the first place. The thing is, though, in today’s society...I am nothing. And at the end of the day, I made that choice. I made the choice to not be someone who won’t leave the house without make-up, I chose to dress for comfort. I made the choice to stop dieting. If you reject the societal norms, society rejects you. There’s no clandestine wink from society at large that says, “well, we don’t necessarily approve, but...gosh, you crazy kid, we love ya anyway!” If you decide to say no, you must be prepared to handle what may follow: ostracization (note: Dictionary.com says that’s a word, I swear to Christ), depression, loneliness, regret. If you’re lucky, you’ll find like-minded individuals. But that’s if you’re lucky...and we all know just how lucky I am (saaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaad trumpet). Well, I should slightly alter that to say I have found like-minded individuals...in the platonic sense, that is. (saaaaaaadder trumpet)

So then the question is: do I regret the choices I’ve made? Honestly, it depends on the day. If I was 10 years younger, I’d be quick to say “OH HELL NO”. But being 36 and currently enduring one of the more unpleasant depressive spells I’ve had in many years of depressive spells, it’s harder for me to answer “OH HELL NO”. The one I can safely say 100 percent I don’t regret is the dieting thing. Me on a diet = me being a bigger asshole than usual because I was doing the Fat Girl Tap Dance of making sure the world at large KNEW I was working on being a “better person” and would gladly share with anyone who would listen that I was eating “right” and exercising. Perhaps it was interesting conversation to others, but in my head, I was constantly telling myself to shut the fuck up. As for not being a “womanly” woman...that’s a tougher sell as of late. It does sting when I get “mistered”. It’s hurtful to feel like I don’t belong anywhere, really. That I’m not good enough in a wide variety of areas, let alone in the aesthetic one. It’s not terribly festive being an It, being a non-entity. I’m decent at distracting myself with whatever so it’s not a constant rocking back and forth and dwelling on boo-hoo-poor-me. The bitch is that the pain, anger, frustration, and embarrassment sneak up on me. I can be tootling along and feeling decent, and then KA-BAM, I’m mired in a seemingly never-ending retrospective of my Greatest Misses, pulling up each and every regret, every moment where I’ve felt particularly It-like, every rejection, every misstep, every fuck-up, what a fucking enormous mess I’ve made of things. Then comes the full-snot tears while riding public transportation or sitting at my desk at work and it’s like I’m a walking goddamned episode of “Dr. Phil” without the homespun cornpone advice that makes no sense being screamed at me. “What YOU NEEEEED is something we like to call in Texas ‘a sassafrassin’ ramtambler’!”

I am quite the super special snowflake, ain’t I. Believe me, no one’s more exhausted of my ass than I am. But I’ve decided that soon, I must make one of the most important choices of my life: just how dark I want to dye my hair, because my roots—WOOF. Eighteen miles long of mousy brown comin’ into town.



*note: there is no Official Handbook; but you can choose between a toaster oven or an electric skillet Read more on this article...